The Ashes Fell Like Snow
by Burn-it-to-the-Ground
Summary: What does it mean to be the devil's lackey? Severus sees it in bloodstains on the wall, horrified eyes, a strangled heart. It's the twisted corpse on the floor, the lifeless face. The devil's slave. Only images can describe it. There are no words for this


**People who are waiting for me to update my other story: I'M SO SORRY! I'm currently chasing my muse for that one. It ran away, but hopefully I will see it again someday. In the meantime, I was randomly attacked by a plot bunny that told me to write this. I suppose that has something to do with my sudden Harry Potter obsession. **

**Just so you know, this story sounded better in my head, but I did the best I could. In case you don't gather this early on, this is in Severus's very early Death Eater days. Just to let you know, this might switch tenses occasionally. I started writing it in past tense, somehow switched to present, back to past, and so on and so on. I noticed during my rewrite, and I think I got it all the same, but I might have missed a few words. This is actually my first time writing in present tense, but it just wanted to be written that way. **

**Oneshot**

The Ashes Fell Like Snow

There were laughing faces, empty eyes, and blood dripping from the mantelpiece.

Outside, the snow falls in quiet swirls, white flakes buffeted by the breeze in their downward journey to the earth. There are no people on the roads and sidewalk. The cold and the silence muffles even the noisy, bustling citizens. A quiet street. A quiet town. A horror story in the fourth house on the right.

Two days before the New Year, and Death comes to visit. He arrives in the form of four people. The leader, the god of death, walks in front, black hood not fully concealing the skull like face, snakelike eyes dwelling in hollow sockets, two thin lines of hell. One follows close behind him, awe and admiration shining in her elegant face, her back slightly bent, honoring her master with an eternal bow. Two more lag a little way behind, close together. Their faces are masks, composed, bored, even. But beneath, their hearts beat a staccato rhythm against their ribs, and their insides feel frozen and crumpled. New recruits. Welcome to the ranks of the devil.

The two glance at each other, briefly. One, taller than the other by several inches, smiles momentarily, pale lips curving into a satisfied arc, triumph with just a hint of amazement. _We're here! _It whispers. _We're servant of the Dark Lord. We've done it!_ The look was not unexpected. This, after all, had been Lucius's plan for many years. In some ways, it had been his responsibility. His father had expected nothing less.

The other tries to return the smile, but his mouth refuses to respond. Instead, he forces himself to nod, though the miniscule movement of his head sends shivers wracking down his body. We're here. And he can't believe it. He doesn't want to believe it. Unconsciously, he presses his fingernails into his left forearm, feeling the still tender mark burned into the skin. A black skull, a serpent protruding from it's open mouth. The Dark Mark. Severus worked hard to earn that symbol, that sign of belonging. At fifteen, he has become one of the youngest Death Eaters ever to be welcomed into Voldemort's company. Lucius, five years older than him, introduced him to the Dark Lord a mere two years ago. Voldemort recognized potential instantaneously. Severus possessed talent such as few men had ever seen. His magic was powerful, and his mind even more so. He had the ability and aptitude to do almost anything, be almost anyone. And his heart, his soul was filled with hatred. The Dark Lord saw it immediately. Hatred, pain, and mistrust, combined with unsurpassable ability. Yes, the boy would suit his needs perfectly. It would not be long before he made his way into the upper ranks.

Severus, pulls his black cloak closer around his thin frame, tries desperately to sift through his thoughts and emotions, put a name to what he feels. Is he glad to be there? Even that is difficult to answer. He's proud to be one of Voldemort's followers, satisfied that he's progressing so rapidly into one of the elite. But there is a coldness inside him, wrapping around his heart like an icy vine, strangling it. He can't identify it, but the feeling carves him in half. He knows he is going to see death that night.

There's no reason why that should scare him. Severus is well acquainted with death. It plays with his mind all the time, a fascinating animal that gambols and cavorts in the back of his head, almost friendly, until something awakens it into a fury and it roars and growls, clawing at Severus, threatening to swallow him. Severus is fascinated by it, almost obsessed. Death has a way of growing inside him, until, like a weed, it eats and consumes every part of his life. But yet…he can't bring himself to feel any enthusiasm that night. He feels nothing except the life being drained from his soul. Death moves inside him, straining to be released. Severus feels no exhilaration.

Lucius taps Severus's arm sharply, bringing the younger boy to an abrupt halt. The Dark Lord has paused to carefully examine a house, read the number, look for signs of the life he has come to terminate. There's a fire in one of the upstairs rooms. Severus can see its orange light flickering through the glass pains. He imagines a silhouette by the warm grate, relaxing in a chair, a book clutched in its grasp. The nameless emotion writhes inside Severus. A hand throttles his soul. His lips part as he struggles to breath. Death howls its approval from inside his mind. Severus's heart whispers a single word; _No._ But death wins. Severus follows his lord down the driveway. The blanket of white on the brick surface silences the Death Eaters' footsteps. Severus can sense magic. The house is guarded by an enchantment. Voldemort mutters a word, his wand moves in a quick, skilled motion. The protective spells melt away, fragile snowflakes before the fire of hell. They reach the door. A single quick tap, and that too opens. The way is clear.

Severus enters the house a short distance behind the rest of the group. They make their way to the staircase. It takes only a minute to reach the top. Sixty seconds of eternity. It is not nearly long enough. With each step Severus takes, it gets harder to breath. But he has to keep going. If he stops now, he will die in this godforsaken house. It's simple self-preservation that makes him move forward.

The victim has heard a noise. They can hear him moving, only a few yards away, behind a thin door. He mutters a locking spell, and there is a firm click as the latch moves into place. As if it will do any good. What protection is that flimsy wooden shield, when the god of death is in your house? Still, he tries. Severus pictures him, a trapped animal huddled in a cage. The wolf is about to be let in.

The Dark Lord reaches the door. He raises his wand. "_Aloharmora." _It swings open.

"_CRUCIO!" _Voldemort screams his curse before the other man even has time to make a sound. His prey collapses, twisting in agony, screams of pain stretching the air like a tightrope.

Severus feels dizzy, the room spins. The neighbors must have heard. Soon the police will arrive. He stares out the window, away from anguish of the person crumpled on the floor. He can see a light on in the house next door. As he watches, it turns off, abruptly. The answer in no, no one is coming.

He turns his gaze toward Lucius. The blond is smiling, almost laughing, reveling in the misery before him. His wand is clutched eagerly in his hand. He wants a turn. Severus swallows back the bile in his mouth. He looks toward Bellatrix. She is doubled over in glee, her shrieks of joy tangling with the man's terror. Severus fights the urge to run. He is safe here. He is one of them. Once again, he struggles not to be sick.

He forces his gaze back to the man on the ground. Severus recognizes him. He was in his year at Hogwarts. A muggle born Slytherin. There are many more of those than most people guess. Voldemort despises them all. In his eyes, they disgrace the noble house of Salazar Slytherin. The one helpless before him now was one of the worst offenders. He made attempts to reconcile Slytherin with the other houses, encouraged unity between purebloods and Mudblood filth. He is paying for it now. Severus stares at him, fixated by the scene before him. The man is thin, brown haired, and plain. Severus remembers him as he was back at Hogwarts, energetic, lively, ambitious, friendly. He wanted to become an auror. Severus never bothered to learn his name.

A particularly loud peal of laughter draws Severus out of his reverie. Bellatrix is using her knife, carving at the victim's flesh. Voldemort has let her take over the torture, play with the food before it is devoured. Dripping scarlet words emerge on the man's arms, face and collarbones. _Filth, Mudblood, traitor, fool… _Lucius guffaws appreciatively. He turns toward Severus, his handsome face alight with enjoyment. Severus knows what he is expecting. He carves a wooden smile onto his face. He tries to laugh. The sound will not come out. There's no breath for it.

Bellatrix presses the knife blade against the man's lips. Severus can see his eyes, wide with terror, the whites shining with fear, a fragile animal pushed into a corner, staring down the barrel of a gun. The fire light pulsates and flashes in their depths. The pupils land upon Severus. They freeze there. Severus knows why. He isn't laughing. To some extent, his horror must show upon his face. But there is more reason than that. This man, powerless on the ground, knows Severus understands. In Severus's mind, hundreds of experiences blur together, times when he was as vulnerable as the person he stares at now, times when he was mocked, toyed with, a victim. Severus remembers frequent occasions when the man tried to step in, tried to help. He never succeeded, he was too weak. But he tried. He almost always ended up in the hospital wing for his trouble, but he kept trying. With wide eyes and no words, he begs for help, for the thank you Severus never gave him. His hand moves up, grasping, fingers curling as if Severus's sympathy and aid is something he can take in his fist and pull toward himself. He pleads for it. His fingers brush the hem of Severus's robe. No one is laughing now. Voldemort, Bellatrix, Lucius, their eyes are all fixed on Severus, waiting. The knife is poised above the man's face, halted in mid air. Thin lips, caked in blood, form a single word, mouthing it. _Please. _His fingers bite into Severus's cloak. Severus can feel them on his heart. He steels his resolve, he empties his soul, and makes it one with death. With a quick motion, he kicks the man's hand away. He spits upon his face. He turns. Something inside him breaks. He doesn't know what it was, but he mourns its loss.

Bellatrix cackles and resumes her game. Lucius places a friendly hand upon Severus's shoulder. The eyes of the Dark Lord are approving, they almost smile at him. The fist is gone from Severus's heart. He has no heart left for it to strangle.

Bellatrix places the tip of the knife against the man's mouth once more.

"What did you expect?" she hisses, the sound seeming to echo around the room. "Did you think he would help you?" her voice rises an octave, teasing and cutting. "Did you, Mudblood?" She cuts his lip open, watching as the thick crimson liquid flows into his mouth. He gags on it, trying to turn his head so he can spit it out. She grabs his hair, pulls him back to the ground.

"I –," he begins, chocking, but she cuts him off.

"Don't speak to me!" Her voice is the shrill screech of a bird of prey. "Don't you dare speak to me with that tongue that has defended muggles!" The knife slices once more, and blood splatters across Severus's face. It's warm and thick, sliding in shining droplets down his cheeks. A single drop makes it's way over his lips, into his mouth. It tastes coppery and desperate. He knows that he will always remember that taste. It's the taste of misery.

The man tries once more to speak. Bellatrix forces the knife past his teeth and makes a vicious swipe, a cruel twirl of her wrist. The man utters a guttural gasp of torment. Salt water mingles with scarlet and the two coat his face. Bellatrix uses the knife blade to flick the man's severed tongue from his mouth. She giggles loudly as the man struggles to turn over onto his stomach. He vomits blood onto the carpet. Bellatrix quickly jumps back, disgust etched into her face.

"Dirty blood!" She screams, wringing her hands in an attempt to shake the clinging blood off them. "Don't soil me, filth!" She attacks again, stabbing and slicing. Severus sees Lucius out of the corner of his eye. The tall boy is no longer laughing. His mouth is wide open, his eyes are frozen. He's trembling ever so slightly. This is not what he thought it would be. But it's too late to go back now. They are slaves of the darkness. There's no way to find freedom again.

Lucius's fear wakes Severus up. The two of them have been friends for a long time. They were close, always there for each other. It's true that Lucius never defended Severus against Potter, or openly admitted their friendship for fear that his father would be displeased the Lucius chose to befriend a halfblood, but he's the only person Severus has left. Severus knows Lucius meant to do him a favor by bringing him to Voldemort, but still, he can't rid himself of the image of Lucius laughing as he watched Bellatrix carve words into the skin of a human being. At the same time, he remembers Lucius staying up all night with him, talking, comforting him after a nightmare that left Severus sweating and trembling. How can one man have two such different sides? Is the boy who openly praised Voldemort, spoke eagerly of taking part in the Dark Lord's missions the same one who stands here next to him, shaking, sweat dripping from his palms? Blood stains Lucius's robes, it drips across his forehead. Severus's stomach turns.

Screams rent the air again, choking, gasping sounds. Bellatrix saws with the knife, cutting through flesh, tendons, and bone. Killing is not enough. She has to mutilate the man first. Already, she's halfway through the first finger. The man on the floor doesn't have enough strength left to struggle. Instead, he shudders feebly, a tremor wracking his body. Enough. Severus raises his wand.

"Avada Kadavra."

He speaks the words calmly, though they're strangers to him. This has to end. He's had enough. A flash of green light, and the man flops limply back. His breath is extinguished, his life burned out. Bellatrix turns to Severus, indignant.

"Why-." She begins loudly, the syllable offended and cross.

Severus cuts her off. "This is too loud. The muggles will call the police. We can't afford to be here when they do." He hopes he's right. The sound of approaching sirens would benefit him greatly right now.

Her mouth opens and closes several times, working on forming her words of anger. She's furious, he can see that. He ruined her fun. He waits for her words, but instead, it's Voldemort who fills the silence.

"There are more, Bella, many more people we will have the chance to finish before this is over." His voice is cruel, empty of any emotion. None of the torture happening before him has fazed him. Bellatrix's rage fades immediately. She gazes at Voldemort adoringly, her eyes wide with awe. She bows slightly, praising her god.

"Yes, my lord," she whispers, a prayer, hoping to win his approval.

Severus feels disgust creeping through him.

Voldemort sweeps out of the room without another word. Bellatrix follows after him, a faithless, mindless dog. Both Lucius and Severus hesitate.

"Sev?" Lucius's voice is calm again, composed. "We should be going."

"You go."

Lucius freezes, analyzing the words. Severus knows he senses the rejection in them. The change from 'we' to 'you'.

"Severus-"

"Just go, Lucius!" Severus has nothing left, no kind feeling for this man. The words fall between them and shatter like glass, dropping to the floor in a silver rain. Lucius says nothing more. He turns, hurries out of the room. Severus remains a moment longer to kneel beside the corpse. He reaches out, brushes the eyelids closed. He knows what they say in all the books, about how the person could be sleeping, peacefully. It's not true, at least not in this case. The face in front of him is twisted and disfigured. It's soaked in blood, the same red staining the entire room, splattered on the book shelf, the walls, the clock in the corner. Severus stands, and steps back.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. It's stupid, he knows. The carcass can't hear him. He might as well apologize to the bookshelf, but he says it anyway. _I'm sorry. _Quietly, he makes an acknowledgment, a confession. The muggle born, the Mudblood was human. He, himself? Severus can't be sure about that. He bows his head quickly, and heads through the doorway. He can hear the others on the stairs, and almost runs to catch up. He's a coward. He won't turn away from the Dark Lord now. Not yet.

Four people stream out through the front door. They head quickly down the walkway, through the snow. At the gate, they stop. "_Incendio"_ the leader whispers. The spell is strong. Red flames lead from the roof, hang out the open windows. With one more word, a skull and snake appear to hover above the bonfire. A satisfied smile, and the devil continues on his way. His three slaves follow behind. In their wake, ashes blow in the wind, mixing with the snow, and leave their gray tears behind.

**Well, there you are. Read and review if you liked it. Flame if you didn't. And never try to write something like this while listening to the Caramelldansen. I know I won't ever again. **


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